‘You know,’ Woody said, ‘I’ve been wondering for a while whether you weren’t some kind of thrill freak. High threshold level of excitement. You have to push the envelope to get any kind of rush at all. I mean, you did say you were into bunji jumping.’
‘I did it once! And my top came off!’
‘How about base jumping? Maybe some of that freefall parachuting with a snowboard?’ Kate rolled her eyes and gave him the finger, but Woody was just getting started. ‘Which would you find more stimulating?’ he said in a mock examiner voice. ‘A: The perfect performance of Pachelbel’s Canon played at dusk in the shadow of the Parthenon? B: A ninety-nine-yard run from scrimmage to win the game with no time left on the clock? Or C: Walking along the edge of a precipice?’
‘Fuck you, Woody.’ She swiped her hair back off her forehead. ‘We gotta go out there and get some news.’
‘You mean “make” some news, don’t you?’ He held his hands in air to hang the block type of a headline. ‘ “NBC News Crew Missing”, followed by “NBC News Crew Found Dead; Woman Thought Strangled by Cameraman.’”
She ignored him. ‘It’s our job, Woody. We’re not editorialists. We’re not supposed to sit back and rehash somebody else’s story. We’re supposed to be out there getting first-hand accounts. Talking to the soldiers and the commanders. Witnessing the battles with our own eyes. Feeling what ifs really like for the poor bastards who’re stuck in this mess.’
Woody shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘What?’
‘Okay. Let’s head out there.’
Kate hesitated, fighting her inclination to argue the other side. Wary that Woody might just be baiting her into some stupid joke. But he just raised his eyebrows and waited. ‘How?’ she asked.
‘Kiss some officer’s ass. Hitch a ride with one of the units that are unloading down at the port.’
‘But the Public Affairs Officers only allow press pools to go out.’
‘Fuck the PAOs. Everything’s so screwed up that those guys getting off the boats don’t know the rules. You may have to ask a dozen officers before you find one who says okay. But these military types lord over their units like little fiefdoms. Promise to interview them. Somebody somewhere’ll jump at the chance. Imagine — getting your handsome face all over the airwaves back home where your mom and the guy who stole your girl in high school can see it. All dressed up in your combat gear heading off to war.’ Kate’s back was straight as a board. She was hardly able to remain seated there even a moment longer. ‘A free ticket to hell, Katie,’ Woody said, staring at her — unsmiling.
Kate avoided his eyes. She rose. She began to plan out loud where they would start. What her pitch would be. She started to climb into her cold weather gear in the cramped editing room. Woody reminded her about retaping the voiceover, and she removed the gear and sat down. This time, she nailed the taping first try. Woody put the tape in the queue for transmission to New York. Kate got dressed again — talking non-stop. After a few moments, Woody quietly began to put his own woolly coat on. His motions were slow and lethargic.
Andre Faulk was exhausted from two days at sea. The smelly, rusty freighter was crammed with all the low-priority shipments. It had been pitched and tossed in the winter seas. Andre hadn’t been able to hold down any food since he had first vomited six hours into the voyage. They had been packed like cattle — like captives on an old slave ship from Africa — deep in the musty holds of the wreck. The whole way the men and women of the Division Postal Detachment had seethed over their poor treatment. And they’d been up all night while their Navy escorts spent hours pounding the sea with explosives.
The combat units had flown over on luxury airliners.
He walked down the rickety gangplank carefully. The cold air cut right through Andre’s loosely hanging parka, but he breathed deeply. Ahead was land, and fresh air, and open space — the end to die miserable voyage. He fell into formation with the others from his unit — a motley crowd of the overweight and the slight-of-build. They dressed right — holding their left arms out to the next man’s shoulder to ensure uniformity of spacing.
Andre knew everyone thought him to be a moron. He could tell it by the jobs that they gave him. And they spoke slowly and used different words with the same meaning when they thought he couldn’t understand. He was black and from the inner city. He had a heavy accent, he now realized. And he was by far the most physically fit. So why else would he be thrown in among the army’s basket cases? On the first day, his section leader — a sergeant with thick, coke-bottle glasses — had asked if he ‘felt comfortable’ delivering the mail to the units. When Andre didn’t catch his drift, he said ‘You know, reading all the names out.’
He felt himself sway slightly from one foot to the other. He was on the concrete wharf of a harbor, but still the experience of his one and only ocean voyage tormented him. Still he felt nauseous.
‘Listen up!’ the lieutenant yelled as he approached the formation. In the heavy winter gear he looked almost athletic. But Andre had seen him in the gym back in Korea. He was almost six feet tall, but maybe weighed one forty. ‘You are now in the city of Vladivostok, Russia! I don’t know how close you’ve been following the news, but there is no Russian government left! It’s collapsed! This whole area out here is under military government by UNRUSFOR! That stands for “United Nations Russian Forces”! You should consider yourselves in hostile territory any time you’re outside a secure military compound! There haven’t been any reports of Chinese attacks inside the city, but they’re on the way! The real problem we’ve got is with lawlessness! There may still be Anarchist terrorists out there! Plus the civilian population is hungry, so they’ll do lots of crazy things like slit your throat to get at your food or your wallets! That means standing orders are no fraternization!’
A groan went up. ‘Now I mean it, guys!’ the lieutenant shouted in a high-pitched voice. He was really cracking down now they were in a war zone. Andre rolled his eyes. ‘Okay! What we’re gonna be doin’ is processing and sorting at two different stations! One here at the port for the bulk mail and packages. One at the airport for first-class and all priority courier services! But given the distances involved in getting to the front, there’s only gonna be one truck goin’ out per day, and it’s gonna have to pick up at both stations! It’s a real mess over here right now, guys! I know we haven’t trained to split up the sorting to two stations, but we’re all strained to the max and are gonna have to buckle down and get it done!’ His fist pumped the air in front for emphasis. ‘All right, then!’ he shouted as if they had all just responded. They hadn’t. ‘First mail goes out tomorrow morning, so let’s get cracking!’
Andre picked up his camouflaged duffle bag and rifle. When he stood up he saw that the ship berthed next to the rust bucket on which they’d arrived was disgorging Bradley armored fighting vehicles. They’d all been freshly painted white in the Division’s barns back at Tongduchon. Andre watched a Bradley descend a ramp to the dock. He wondered where Stempel was.
‘Oh!’ someone said as he ran into Andre from behind. ‘Sorry.’ He straightened his helmet and almost dropped his rifle to the concrete. ‘Jeeze! Whew!’
Andre headed off with the rest — disgusted.